


Parade of Planets

by Russian_Fic_Store



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 17:02:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8021926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Russian_Fic_Store/pseuds/Russian_Fic_Store
Summary: Various characters of Vorkosigan saga  meet their mother planets...Translated from Russian by Pilot Mayhew





	Parade of Planets

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Парад планет](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6436495) by [jetta_e_rus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetta_e_rus/pseuds/jetta_e_rus). 



**1: Accomplice**

Cordelia could not quite remember how she had got to the spaceport. Her energy was barely enough to carry her through Mehta’s interview, through breaking out of the house and lying to the journalists, and it finally oozed away.   
The leeway she gained was too insignificant. They would soon fish Mehta from under the bed, untie her and guess where Cordelia fled. They keep no fools in the Corpse. Even less so in Betan Secret Service.  
She would cry in distress. She hated the thought of everything going down the drain the last minute. Hated it to give up. Not with such a disgrace.  
Someone tapped her on the shoulder, lightly. Delicate though the touch was, it jumped her up like an electric shock. Cordelia nearly yelped, but a good–looking green-eyed herm in spaceport officer uniform pressed a finger against its lips.   
“Hush! Follow me. No harm, I promise.”  
“Who are you?”  
“I am here to help you, Captain Naismith. Follow me and they will not find you.”  
“But…”  
“We are wasting our time. Trust me. I know all the ins and outs here.”  
“The herm grabbed her hand without further ceremony, dragged her through some service spaces and dropped Cordelia at some cubbyhole.”   
“Wait here.”  
Cordelia waited and waited, her heart racing.   
The strange herm returned in about half an hour, which dragged like an eternity to her. It looked pleased with itself.   
“Everything is all right. I have temporarily deactivated their alarm system. I’ve also led away your pursuers. While they are about to find out they were fooled like little kiddies, you may make it to the freight flight to Escobar. Make haste, captain.”   
“Thanks, but…who are you, really?”  
The herm answered with a careless smile:  
“They usually call me the Old Sandbox. And my name is simply Beta.”

**2: Tutor**

The attempt of the princes of Barrayar Empire to penetrate into the Council Hall failed entirely. They were intercepted right by the doors and explained that kids had no business attending the events of the importance so prominent.   
“If only you didn’t stomp like that!” the elder prince, who was as old as twelve, said angrily.   
“I didn’t stomp, I didn’t!” sulked the other prince, who was two years younger.   
“You can always tell the true Vorbarra,” smiled somebody behind them, “Even at a tender age they are all for the state affairs.”   
The boys jumped in surprise. While they were arguing, they were approached by a tall grownup wearing green military tunic, a sheathed broadsword and a plasma arc.   
“By the way, if your Highnesses climb that stairs over there, nice and quiet, they will find a window to the Gallery,” advised the grownup and…made his way to the Hall directly.  
He just opened the door and entered! Being fully armed. Past the security people. And that when Dad was right there, behind the door!  
The princes’ jars felled down. But all was quiet in the Hall, as if everything had been all right.  
They nonetheless climbed upstairs to have a look, but they did not like the meeting much. Dad and his ministers were discussing things, and the stranger was there, too. He sat silent, sometimes nodding, sometimes frowning. It was boring as hell, in a word.   
* * *  
In six months Gregor Vorbarra once found his sons, talking in the most remote corner of the park with some tall brown-eyed man dressed in military uniform. The officer had their entire attention. He was telling something and the princes were listening with their eyes wide opened, exclaiming every minute “Wow! No kidding!”  
The tall officer and the Emperor exchanged glances, and the officer winked at Gregor, almost imperceptibly.   
Gregor smiled. When he was ten, he also liked to say, “No kidding!” Notwithstanding the fact that his status quite forbade him to use the expression.  
Barrayar's history is fascinating, by far. Especially when told by himself.

**3: Kinsman**

The ceremonial reception at the palace was in full swing, and Illyan, the Chef of ImpSec, was having a nice cup of tea at a standalone table with a weird stranger - instead of propping a wall, as usual.  
The guest looked totally out of place at a grand party. It would just suffice to mention his short gel-styled silver hair sticking out like hedgehog’s needles, and a silhouette of a starship with provocative words “Catch Me If You Can” all over the back of his shiny jacket. Did not seem to put him out of his depths, though. The man, squinting behind his visor glasses, spinning a key ring clanging with data chips and master keys round his finger, addressed Illyan reproachfully,   
“Where’s the respect one should show to his relatives, Simon? This ain’t no proper welcome, either…”   
Surprisingly enough, the fearsome head of ImpSec bore the reproach in silence. “Relatives!” sighed he in his cup of lukewarm tea.   
“What? You ain’t got no one closer than we are. You might have got used to it, after thirty years of living together. We kinda have an almost similar second name. That’s destiny. I had to just look at you, you wandering youngsters, and think, “this one will succeed. Boring though he might look, this boy is all right”. And that’s what you just did, didn’t you?”  
“Yep, and you did make a pretty mess of my brain, that’s for sure,” grumbled Illyan.  
“Don’t say you are not happy with it,” the man waived a finger, reproachfully. The finger left thin, spider web-like hologram threads in the air.   
“Ok, I admit. I am happy. What would I be without your chip… gaffer Illyrica!”

**4: Mommy**

She is large, loud and burly. Her outfit with feather boa seems extravagant, and massive rings on her fingers look tasteless, gaudy, eye-catching. However, a lady of her age and wealth may give not a single damn for other people’s opinion. Similar though the local dark – skin Brazilian girls may look, she is unique - you can see it with your eyes closed. One of a kind, known throughout the Galaxy, beyond any comparison.   
Her welcome shouts are ringing in his ears like the roar of a shuttle taking off.   
“Ky, my boy! It’s soooo great to have you back at last!”  
Having opened her massive arms, she gives him a passionate embrace. There is not a speck of falsehood in it. A huge smile is blooming on her face.   
“Oh, you've had your time away, have you? It’s ages since I saw you!”  
And a sixty year old commander Tung, veteran space mercenary and Chief of Staff of the Fleet, obediently tells her about his “far space affairs” and “history books”, and she nods approvingly, shiny golden orbits of her earrings rocking gently. She smells of greenery and heavy rain. An unusual fragrance, in comparison to the routine notes of metal, clinker and conditioned air.   
“Ky, you vagabond,” she reproaches him with a smile. “Well, I won’t let you go this time, you be sure. I’ll get you married, that’s what I’ll do!”  
Mother Earth is laughing loudly. Far thunderstorm answers her in the sky.  
   
 **5: Boy**

He was running so fast you might think he had six legs, no less. Six long legs with strong knees, stomping the ground with confidence. His dungarees were covered with mossy stains, left by green Earth grass and multicolor local grass.   
The boy wriggled out of the arms of a dignified-looking man, barely escaped an overanxious woman, brushed past a security guard and stopped at the red carpet rolled over the spaceport concrete grounds. And stared at the couple in whose honor the meeting ceremony was organized.  
Cordelia smiled gently at a little imp, Aral gestured to his Armsmen not to get overexcited. He took an instant liking to the little aborigine. His fearlessness and self-reliance were so winsome – the boy guessed that the adults were about to call him to order and waited bravely when the vice-king and vice-queen would step towards him. His face with a faint lilac trace left by a Sergyar parasite worm was expectant - of news, changes and achievements, and full of burning curiosity of what was going to happen next.  
“Welcome to Sergyar, Milord, Milady”, The Chairman of a welcome committee had finally made it to the end of his speech.   
The boy Sergyar winked at the Vorkosigans as if they were old pals.  
He was running at the head of the solemn procession, adroit and evasive like a floating jellyfish. He greeted everyone he knew, and their number seemed to be well above a thousand. He was laughing and turning somersaults here and now.   
“The Future and the Past?” smiled Aral. Cordelia squeezed his hand.  
   
 **6: Companion**

“Change your mind,” she speaks sadly. “You do not know what you do.”   
Galen is indignant. How dares she! They have been together for so many years; he will go through fire and water for her. He will sacrifice anything for her. He knows perfectly well, what is better for her. He will win a glorious future for her, they will speak about her, reckon with her, and he will become her hero. But oh, the words she said! He always wished her well, he did, and now she is like “you do not know what you do.”   
Angry and hurt, Galen did not notice himself starting to yell, trying to prove he knows better what future his homeland deserves.  
“Look at yourself,” she gives a heavy sign. “Look what you’ve become.”  
“Hands shaking, you splatter and stomp your feet. You’ve said so many elated words about your motherland, but you’ve been only thinking of yourself.”  
Galen has no time to retort. She always has the last word.  
* * *  
“Aim better, boy,” she whispers, observing a dramatic scene at the London gathering pond dam.  
The crack of a nerve disruptor. The flash of cold blue light. He who thought himself to be a great patriot is a dead body now.  
She leaves the killing site unnoticed. Wind tousles her blond shoulder-long lockets and toys with the folds of her broad trousers and jacket. Her gaze is sad; she did not wish death on the man who loved her. All other deaths, she did not want them either. As for the future, she already knows whom she will bond it with. Her chosen one is severe, even ruthless, but reliable and brave. And it is her who keeps the keys to their common home. He is her Barrayar. She is his Komarr.   
   
 **7: Lady**

Sometimes it seems to him that he knows her longer than he remembers his own self. She is sitting on her heels by the stream, in the midst of carelessly flowing robes, sparkling with tiny diamonds in the rays of the setting sun. Playing thoughtfully with her fan, she throws a pixyish look at him over her shoulder.   
“Been a while,” she smiles ironically, making her usual small pause before adding “…Celestial Lord”.   
The cranes on her unfolded fan spread artfully painted wings in a vain attempt to fly away into the scarlet evening sky.   
Sometimes he hates her, because she holds the actual power and knows it all too well, that is why she is laughing now, hiding behind her fan. Still, when she looks at him straight and open, bringing close together her thin eyebrows, pressing her scarlet lips tightly, her eyes aglow like distant stars, not yet conquered, he is ready to die for her.   
“What is her name?” she asks absent-mindedly, looking at herself at the stream mirror. All eight reflections of her are shattering and scattering over the running water, and it seems that there are many more of them.   
“Rian Degtiar,” replies he, looking up in to the crimson sky.   
“She’s a good girl,” she nods, folding and unfolding her fan, “and a decent wife for my Sky Lord. I would not mind getting to know her…closer? Or maybe I should not frighten her, what do you think?”   
Without waiting for the response, she rises from her heels lightly and deliberately straightens heavy folds of her clothes. Her long black hair flows down to the ground, barely touching the soft garden grass.   
“I hope our girl won’t be jealous?” she asks tenderly and laughs before vanishing into the evening dusk of the Emperor’s garden. Echoes of her laughter are slowly fading in the air like silvery chime of temple bells.   
He stands silently and watches her go - Cetaganda the many-faced, impossible, ruthless, the only one. He belongs to her hide and hair, and she… she belongs to herself only.   
This is how it has always been and always will be.   
   
 **8: Giver**

The man appeared at the door when Ethan was still at work. It is winter outside, heavy snow is falling, white as the guest’s thick spade bear – an insignia of a respectable man who brought up his children and is now greeting his sunset years in dignity.  
“Doctor Urquhart is not at home,” Terrence Cee apologizes politely.   
“And I’ve come to see you, not him,” says the guest in deep bass. I heard a lot about you, quite a lot, and I decided to get to know you closer.”   
“Me? But, I am…”   
“Not one of my own, I know. Does it matter? You are just the same as my other boys. ”   
To be honest, Terrence is not just the same. He is out of a laboratory glass, brought up as a secret agent. He fought, killed, been to places. He was in love with a woman and is looking forward to having their babies, but he would not tell those dirty things straight to that grandfather’s face. He just says abruptly, “you are very kind, sir.”   
“And I am good, too”, smiles the latter and half opens the neck of his sack, which appeared out of nowhere. “The New Year is coming, and I brought some gifts for you.”   
“What…gifts?”  
“Whatever you want. Children. Career. Shelter. A loving family.” He leans forward and speaks in a confident manner: “Shouldn’t I give you something pretty nice in return for the whole generation of telepaths you brought here, Terrence Cee?”  
It’s a big secret for everyone else, but Grandpa Athos knows everything.  
Terrence Cee needs no chocolate bar to read it in his mind.   
   
 **9: El Caballero**

Thin soles of her slippers do not protect from the sun-heated stairs of the gangway, but Cordelia lingers at the aircraft gate. Bright colors of the spaceport, hot but fresh air make her head spin a bit.   
“Allow me to help you, Ms. Naismith.” A young customs officer runs up the gangway lightly. Tearing off his wide-brimmed hat from his black curls, he kisses her hand gently.   
“Do you know me?”  
“As if there is anybody who does not know the war hero! The planet is greatly obliged to you”. In his bright blue eyes, there are tiny pieces of the sky and sunny sparkles of laughter. Impish smile hides in small moustache. Taking Cordelia by the arm, he helps her to get down to earth and it takes away the fatigue.   
“Be my guest! But first, you have to change your clothes.”  
“Oh, yes. Hello, Escobar!”  
* * *  
The mirrors of the new hospital are totally confused as to who they reflect. A slender doctor shows the Duronas their new home. They scatter around the floors and their offices, all of them, but a young woman with sad eyes, who still stays by his side.   
“What ails you, Verbena?”  
“My choice. Did I make the right one?”  
“Thank you, Escobar.”   
* * *  
A freight flier hovers over arguing Mark and Enrique. Brown-skinned brunet with piercing blue eyes grins merrily, “Shoving off?”  
“If we only could skip the customs…”  
“Don’t you worry, shorty, I know all ins and outs here. Come on, let’s go!”  
Having passed the last box into the hatchway, Enrique gives a small box to their dashing driver.  
“Good bye, Escobar.”   
* * *  
The driver patted the bug on the back, took a slipper out of the glove compartment and placed the bug there. Then he took his comm and told his wife not to worry, he worked late. Yes, that was his job, his love, his friendship, his generosity. Since he was the Escobar.   
   
 **10: Landlord**

The spacious room looks bare: it was stripped of almost all the knickknacks that made it cozy. Lilly has a minute of rest and she tries to gather some strength before a long journey. Her old body is not as quick off the mark as her mind, still sharp.  
In front of her, a dark skinned sumptuously dressed man slouches on the arm-chair. His silk suit is gleaming, a diamond in a heavy ring showers lights, his dark glasses reflect flecks of lights. On the back of his chair sits an exceedingly multi-colored…well, let it be parrot, though woman’s boobs framed with coquettish feathers is quite a new word in ornithology. There is a label tied to the creature’s little leg. Here on the Jacksons’ Whole everything has its price.   
“So you are going?”  
“I am,” Lilly answers calmly. “I gave you my best years, such as they were. Well, not years, my whole life, to tell the truth”.   
“Did I not appreciate? You got your name, your fame and useful connections, you built up your clan and not a tiny fortune…”  
“Dollerzz!” echoes the parrot hoarsely.   
“You are not safe for us. We are only protected by Georish’s word, and his yeas are numbered. I have to think of a place of my own. Not even a place, a Home.”  
“You are a practical girl, I commend,” he nods in satisfaction. “I bet that even on the Escobar you will remain my girl. You promise not to forget your old friends, don’t you?”  
“I promise. Connections are good for business,” Lilly smiles involuntarily.   
“Deal,” laughs the Jacksons’ Whole and slaps her hand lightly.  
   
 **11:Fairy**

Silhouettes of angels were whistling and howling around Miles like snowflakes in a storm. Or may be they were the actual snowstorm. He got terribly, fiendishly cold in the endless corridors of a cryopreserve facility.   
When one white silhouette glided nearer to him out of the darkness, he could only shoo it away unthinkingly, “shoo, shoo!”   
“Don’t you like me?” demanded the angel.   
He, no – definitely a “she”, had pale skin and wonderful, as if sparkling, hair. And an insulted look at a chiseled face half obscured in the shades.   
“That’s strange. Men usually get crazy about me. They yearn to lie with me in my icy bed. All they need is my ice kiss, nothing more…and a little bit of kryo liquid. You are not like them”.   
“I am not from these parts, lady, eer…”  
“Yuki Onna, little lord. You’ve come to find out my secrets, I know that. Aren’t you afraid that I will freeze you and leave you to lie here forever?”  
Miles shivered. It seemed to him that it got colder in the corridor. Old scars from the needle grenade began to ache.  
“I’ve already been in the domain of cold death and come back from there”, he said coarsely.  
“Impudent, aren’t you?” said the girl shaking her head. Sparkles ran over her snowy hair. “So what do you want here?”  
“Not much, really. I only want to know what one of your daughters needs in my…kingdom. And I will promptly fly away”.  
“All right, you may leave”, said a snow white spirit of Kibou-Daini, without a smile. “I will not take you. Instead, you will lose what you least expect to. Isn’t that just as your old tales tell?”   
   
 **12: Flutist**

“Docking at Graf Station in five minutes”, squealed the loudspeaker in such loathsome synthetic tones that Bel felt like picking it out of its ears. Instead, the hermaphrodite smoothed its hair, shook off invisible specks of dust of its shirt and headed for the exit.  
Everything seemed absolutely familiar, acidulous smell of metal, economy on everything, usual for docking compartments, starting from decorations and to the artificial G generator.  
The only unusual thing was a low melody, quiet and soft but, surprisingly, filling everything around.  
Bel turned its head around looking for the source of the sound and found it almost immediately. In the air near the landing dock, there hovered a young girl with two pairs of hands, long silver hair and a round, almost childish face.  
To tell the truth, she did not notice Bel at first.   
She hung in the air her eyes closed and played on a small flute drumming the beat with the second pair of hands. The melody echoed from the walls and it seemed that the Station itself was singing.  
Bel would hate it to interrupt the flutist, but then something made rattling noise behind it, where the airlock module was, and the girl opened her eyes.   
“Oh-oh”, she lowered the flute, “I am sorry I got carried away a bit…”  
“Never mind me”, Bel smiled at the girl. Please continue. Your performance is amazing.   
The girl burst out laughing. She had a laughter like the sounds of flute and a bit like silver bells.  
“I am glad you like it. Welcome to Quaddie Space, Bel”.  
“I beg your pardon, but have we met before?” Bel raised its eyebrow in astonishment. It could remember no other woman like this one, except Nicole.  
“No, unfortunately not,” the silver haired girl shook her head. “But I’ve been waiting for you for quite a long time, you know. And, as you may guess, I am not the only one.”  
“But who are you, please?” Bel looked into the girl’s eyes. “What shall I call you”?  
“Quaddie,” she smiled. “Just Quaddie”.  
   
 **13: Stationer**

Splоsh! Sob. Harrrumphh….  
They all are quite well-off, I don’t mind telling you. That Barrayaran guy in his military jacket, and that beautiful Cetagandan, and even that old man Athos, darn him. A neighbor, my ass: you cannot invite him to see you, neither can you go and visit him. But I envy that old lewdster. And I envy all them other guys whom they wrote so much about here.  
Why, you ask me? Because they are humans, that’s why! Smart, smooth, ambitious.  
Me, I am just a newt. A newt from Klein Station.  
Them, they have huge planets. All I have is a tiny transfer station in the background of the Universe. They have the sky and the sun, oceans and mountains. Me? I sometimes have hiccups because of sultry air and a hereditary claustrophobia. Days and days through I sit in muddy water with no one around to talk to. Though of course I cannot speak, either. All I can do is wag my tail and bulge my eyes.   
Splоsh! Sob! Harrrumphh…  
Frankly speaking, I don’t like them the planet dwellers. Hermaphrodites are of course a bit better than the rest; I can do it to, when in a tight corner. Still, I do not like them! I would bite them, you may have my newt word, but I don’t want to soil my newt jaws. Stinky dirt-eaters, them.  
On my Station, however, there is cleanliness and hygiene, everywhere. There is my newt kingdom here. There is my spirit, my smell everywhere. For I am both the sole and flesh of the station. Everyone here is as good as my kin. The newts themselves are hundreds of thousands. There are fewer those human creatures, of course, but they are my folk, actually. Brought up and raised on newt milk, so to speak.   
If only we go, all together, as one family! When we spread our fins, the whole Universe will bulge its eyes in fear. The newts, they are not just like that, they are the power!


End file.
